To Thine Own Heart
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Oneshot. Post-finale. Chairy Day. "Do you, uh, really feel the same way about him as you did Nate?" "No, I've never loved anyone the way I love him."


**Author's Note:** Written in honor of Chairy (Chuck + Blair + Henry) Day hosted by Chair Week.

* * *

The sight of the tiny, gold heart piercing through the fabric of the white sweater sends his large, red heart throbbing and pounding and aching. He was seventeen the last time he saw this heart nestled in another man's sweater; seventeen when his mouth felt dry and his eyes became wet at the sight. Seventeen when this tiny speck of gold felt like a crushing weight upon his chest because the thought that she could move on so easily when he spent the summer pretending not to care yet unable to look at himself in the mirror left him breathless and full of self-loathing.

And now he is twenty-two and a million butterflies are gasping for air because this pin, which should be inconsequential yet is anything but, is pinned to the sleeve of another's sweater. The pang of jealousy is still there; the rush of air leaving his body at the reminder that he has never worn this pin on his own sleeve.

The sound of her footsteps sends his head rising to greet her, and his gaze levels her with such forthright clarity that she falters in her advancing steps. The question is written across her face; a startled expression wavering as she debates whether she should close the gap between them or wait for him to make the first move. He speaks first yet the way his voice breaks causes her heart to seize.

"I know what that pin means to you. You gave it to Nate the first time you said you loved him."

His gaze adverts from hers for a moment, for just long enough that her brain searches and finds the memory of her first love. Of how she slipped the pin into his dark green sweater when she was nothing more than a child who didn't know what love is. Of how she had been a child whose only taste of love was Audrey Hepburn movies and Jane Austen novels and didn't know yet the kind of love that makes you feel like you are crazy to be with that person, but know you are even crazier when you live without the object of your affection.

"Do you, uh, really feel the same way about him as you did Nate?"

The lie is on the tip of her tongue. She could force it out and let it hang between them until they both suffocate on her toxic words, but that's not what they are anymore. The children with acidic tongues who traded words meant to tear the other down and protect their own hearts from the pain of rejection and the uncertainty of the magnetic connection they never expected to have were left in the past. Swept off the table with yellow poker chips during forthright conversations of who they are and who they want to be.

"No," she finally replies. Her words are a breathless whisper; her eyes shine with unshed tears. "I've never loved anyone the way I love him."

"I see."

And her heart clinches at his two words, four letters because, no, he does not see. It is impossible to see this kind of love, to understand this kind of love, and there are no sonnets or novels about this love because there are not words to describe it. It charges past crazy and edges closer and closer to insane. Because she fell in love with him in the time between a limo and a wedding reception, but the one wearing her heart pin on his sleeve?

Her love for him was instantaneous; it happened in the blink of an eye the moment she first saw him. He does not carry her heart on his sleeve; he is her heart. Plain and simple.

And she turns away from the man who thinks he understands to stare at the one with her gold pin dangling from his sleeve. But he watches her, and his face becomes green with envy at the way she tenderly grasps the receiver of the pin's hand in her own.

She looks back at him with bright eyes and offers him an unapologetic smile as she crosses the room and pushes him down onto the edge of the bed. He watches with wide eyes as she positions his arms and then slowly, carefully transfers the boy with the white sweater and golden pin pinned to his sleeve into his arms.

He cradles the tiny head in his large palms with tender reverence and a hint of trepidation over the prospect of holding this delicate perfection because he's been known to destroy such beauty in the past. Yet while paper-thin eyelids remain shut, tiny lips part with a breathy mewl of greeting. And his arms enclose to become an embrace, to become the kind of affection that wasn't shown to him for so many years.

The bed dips as she takes a seat beside him, and her long brown hair brushes against his sweater-clad shoulder as she leans into him. Her breath traces over his ear; her nose nuzzles against his cheek.

"Don't be jealous of your son, Chuck."

"I'm not jealous," he retorts immediately.

"You're not?"

Her question is a laugh of disbelief, and Chuck's movements are slow as he switches to holding Henry in the crook of one arm. Two hands offer more security, more assurance that he won't hurt his fragile newborn. Only her confidence in him and her assurance that his son's flimsy neck muscles won't break if Chuck holds him in one arm convinced him to give it a try. And even now he is wary and careful as his free hands reach out to touch the tiny, gold heart hanging from the sleeve of the newborn's sweater.

"You never gave me this."

The heart pin is trivial compared to the list of things she has already given him – forgiveness, a second chance at becoming a man worthy of her love, a life that won't end with just him and his scarf, a family – and her eyes soften in a beseeching look for him to understand.

"I gave Henry my heart pin because he is my heart," she explains softly. She doesn't know what else to say, and every word that comes to mind seems to pale in comparison to her feelings. "I know he is his own separate person, but I look at him and—"

Her voice falters and he wants to welcome her to the club, to commiserate with her over the agony of watching your heart exist as a separate entity from across the room. He went through it for so long, watched her exist outside of Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck and felt eaten alive by insatiable jealousy even as he tried to walk away so she could have her fairytale.

"But, Chuck, look at what you're holding."

Both eyes dart to and linger on the sight of the five-week-old baby cradled in his father's embrace. Henry is dressed ever so fashionably for his first party; a sort of naming ceremony meant to be a compromise between his atheist father and his waspy mother with a Jewish stepfather and Catholic tendencies over the question of a christening or a bris. The white sweater is soft against his delicate skin; the purple shirt peeking over the top a compliment to the purple and lilac striped socks on his little feet.

"How can I give you my pin and tell you my heart is on your sleeve when you hold it in your hand? When both times I have chosen you – mon amour fou, my crazy love – to hold it and cherish it?"

"I'm sorry."

His apology is a gut reaction, an involuntary reflex to the mention of the baby that was going to be a part of their 'us' not because of biology but because of a choice between two people who love one another. And the fingers he currently has curled around the heart pin move to catch and brush away the single tear falling down her cheek with his thumb. She leans into his touch, closes her eyes at the feeling of his thumb stroking against her cheek.

And then he leans forward ever so gently so as to avoid jostling Henry awake so the space between their foreheads is nonexistent. His words reach her ear in a soft whisper as he presses his lips against the temple of her forehead.

"Thank you."

The great writers and poets of the world are no match for the simplicity of his statement, and the silence fills in the rest of his sentence with appreciation for everything she has even given him. For shedding society's expectations on the stage of his burlesque club and being sure in the back of his limo; for teaching him about love and refusing to let him be a coward who runs away over and over again. For counseling him and encouraging him and scheming with him year after year; for placing the happiness of herself and her first baby in his hands for even just the briefest of moments. And, finally, for finding her way back to him and creating a family – a new heart – shared equally between them with him.

"This is just a piece of jewelry," she reminds him as her fingers move from the heart-shaped pin to hold the delicate fingers of their son, to feel the beat of her heart in the race of his pulse. "I can't think of another man I would trust more with my heart – my real heart, the one that loves you and feels at its happiest and lightest with you – than you, Chuck."

"I love you."

"And I'm yours," she affirms softly, and then she laughs in a melodic, teasing way that makes his smile so wide wrinkles appear around his eyes. "I think the rings and my surname and the baby and the fact that you, Chuck Bass, love to hold my hand in public proves that."


End file.
